


Of Kings and Queens in Manhattan

by Jehilew



Category: X-Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 20:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18431504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehilew/pseuds/Jehilew
Summary: Romy's first Christmas as a married couple. Picks up at the end of MMX6 and takes an AU turn;)





	1. Let's You And Me Do This

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is the start of Romy's first Christmas as a married couple. I'm not bothered by canon for a variety of reasons, so this is right squarely in AU territory, though it kicks off after the Mr. Mrs. X #6 party.
> 
> This one's for you, pastellarts18. Merry Christmas, my dear:)

" _Ohhhhhhh_ , that feels so good."

Remy turns his head with bright eyes and a tired smile ready as his wife flops back in the love seat beside him. She's still in the ice blue sweater-dress she'd worn at their party, though she'd ditched her thigh high boots somewhere between kicking out their last guest and wilting next to him.

Rogue. Anna-Marie LeBeau. His _wife_. Still makes his head reel to think of that.

And right now, the few inches of space between them is too damn far away.

"That right, chere? Mais, I can think of a couple of other things't might make y' feel even better," he flirts, reaching for her.

"Aww, shug, I really can't," she groans, flinging him wide, apologetic eyes, "I'm too pooped to be any good for that right n—"

"Ain't what I meant," he replies, pulling her bare legs across his lap, "gimme them feet, yeah?"

She tenses at his hands, her fear of touch still deep-seated despite several days wearing a suppression collar allowing her all the touch she could ever ask for. He outwardly ignores the little flinch, knowing it's reflexive and not rejection, and curls a hand under her ankle as he mashes and works the heel of his other hand into the arch of her foot.

" _Ohhhhhhhh_ , you're a ten among fives, Remy Ettiene LeBeau," she declares through a blissful smile, her eyes closing as she shifts into the love seat more comfortably to fully enjoy the foot rub.

"Non, I'm at _least_ an eleven, chere," he flirts back, feeling the tension melt off her legs and feet as he moves on to start stroking his thumb from toe to heel.

She practically purrs and flexes her toes, goosebumps popping up all over her legs. _So_ _damn_ _responsive_! She always has been, and she is moreso now that things are going so good for them.

And him, he's no better, already reacting to her pleasure at his touch, to the buttery-soft texture of her skin, the sight of those long, beautifully muscled legs going up into her bunched skirt…

He lets his thoughts linger there for a moment, eyes following the line of her thighs, thinking how much he'd like to lick that path up between them. Then he wonders what her panties are like tonight. Silk? Lace? Thin enough to taste her through, slowly tease her over before he pulls them aside and mercilessly eats her out?

She snaps him out of the fantasy with a soft snort and a playful tone. "Ain't what you meant, my ass, Cajun."

Remy flicks his gaze back up at hers, empathy wide open and just plain old powers of observation kicked up to gauge how receptive she might be if he made a go for it. She's smiling all soft at him, and her body is relaxed even softer, but her eyes tell him the whole drowsy tale. The pained one, the worried one, and the insecure one, too.

Tonight's probably not the night for trying it, even though she'd likely let him.

He shakes his head and glances down as he switches her feet in his hands. "Wasn't. Don't mean I didn't go there, no?" He smiles back up at her, lightly caressing the hollow of her ankle with his thumb in time with the massage on her foot. "How's y' head, chere?"

Her lips thin out a bit, and her eyes tighten a bit more, but all she does is a tiny shrug. "I gotta headache, but it ain't so bad, now that I traded that collar in for this here bracelet." Then she sits up and leans forward, her feet pushing out of his hands and into the cushions as she scoots in close and loops her arms over her knees. "How's your belly?"

He shrugs and grins. "Feels like I got stabbed. But it ain't so bad, either. It's about half healed now."

She nods, then huffs a laugh. "Who'da thunk it, shug, you an' me can touch, and all it took was you stealin' someone else's wedding to marry me, havin' our honeymoon hijacked by aliens, where you got stabbed in the guts and I had to start wearin' a power dampener at all times that kills my head so I don't kill you just for sharin' the air I breathe."

She quietens, stares down at her toes, and he runs long, soothing strokes up her calves, waiting her out. They've been nonstop _go_ - _go_ - _go_ since Paraiso, going from barely speaking to hitched, alongside fighting the good fight and all the preparations for a wedding that veered sideways. This moment right here marks the first one they've really been able to stop and breathe since... _everything_...kicked off less than four weeks ago. They've got some talks to talk, and right now feels like an extension of the awkward moment when she'd stood in the middle of his apartment for the first time, deliberately distracted by his cats so she wouldn't have to look at him.

A warmer, and definitely more intimate extension, but an extension nonetheless. And just like then, they're both a little too tired to do much with it.

Her eyes follow his hands moving over her legs for a moment, then, "I guess the Guilds are about to start yankin' you around again?"

He blows out a sigh, because there's a heavy topic to kill the warmth between them right quick. "Looks like it, yeah."

She's silent, eyes on him as the full implication behind his answer sets in. "You ain't ever gettin' away from that, are ya?"

He looks over at her, slowly shakes his head. "Non. Never gave y' reason to think I would."

She looks away, lips pursed. "No, I don't guess you ever did."

He flattens his mouth and looks down at the pale legs folded over his lap. While his skin had quickly deepened bronze in the Paraiso sun, hers had only burnished a soft gold and a few more freckles.

"Alright, so," she breathes out, "you're the head of that bunch now, ain't you? What do you need to do with 'em, and what do you need from me to make it happen?"

He glances up at her brisk tone, and immediately cracks wide open at her expression.

She's trying. She's against his thieving, always has been, and she all but loathes the Guilds on pure bias for their treatment of him, but she's trying.

"I reckon I need more information on what all's goin' down to answer y' first question, and as for the second…" He pauses, then shrugs, "mais, chere, all I need from you through anything Guild related _is_ you."

A loaded answer, that. Support, loyalty, acceptance, and possibly assistance in whatever capacity as a Guildmaster's wife. As a Guildmistress.

"Well," she finally answers, "I knew I didn't just marry a fellow X-Man. I see you jugglin' that mess right along with savin' the day on occasion, so I guess I can't say it can't be done." Then she sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out fast. "We're doing this, ain't we?" She looks up at him, eyes wide, uncertain, hopeful. "This whole married thing. We really did it. This ain't no wild dream I'm about to wake up from, reachin' for you, and you won't be there, is it?"

He reaches for her, pulls her to his chest. "Non, ma cherie, s'real." He laces fingers into her hair, rests his chin on top of her head. "We did it. And we doin' it."

She nods, then stills for a moment. "It was all so fast. And a lot's been crammed into so little time." She taps a finger on his chest. "You regret it at all?"

His heart crashes into his ribs at her words, and he kisses the top of her head, lingering there for a moment. Just breathing her in and gathering his words. Finally, "it _was_ fast. Maybe too fast." She stiffens, and he soothes another kiss in her hair. "But non, I don' regret it. Mighta rushed y' when I shouldn't have, but me, I was already there."

She pulls back and looks up at him. "Yeah? When'd you get there? Know you wanted this?"

"Paraiso," he answers, carding curls straying from her updo back behind her ear. "When I told you was wit' you every step of the way. I knew then I wanted to lock it down." He shrugs, "but I knew you was my endgame a long time ago, chere."

She hums at him through a soft smile, then bites her lip and settles pensively back in his chest. "I think I first realized you were it for me was all those years ago, when I followed you down to New Orleans to save Belle with the elixir." She snorts and rubs her nose into his chest. "Scared the crap outta me, 'cause look at the stupid girl who can't touch, chasin' a gorgeous, womanizin' Cajun all the way back home to his stunning _wife_."

That admission yanks at him, and he squeezes her in a little tighter. He'd seen like thoughts out of her in the couple of memories he'd gotten off her golems in Paraiso. _If_ _only_ _she'd_ _known_ …

"Ah, beb, you wasn't stupid at all." He drops a fierce kiss in her hair. "Least ways, no moreso'n I was back then."

"Hah!" She huffs up into his throat, "you tryin' to tell me you had all these girlish little fantasies of you droppin' to a knee with a grand gesture of a proposal? Or of white picket fences, and a little girl and a little boy, 'cause that's just what you do, and that's the perfect little American family?"

"Oh, you thought all that, didja?" He chuckles, rubbing his cheek into her hair. "Had it all planned out, huh?"

"Oh, hush up," she groans, reaching up to smack her lips under his chin. She laughs at herself as she snuggles back down, looping an arm around his neck. "And yeah, of course I had it all planned out," she continues, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. "The ultra romantic proposal. A big ol' Southern church wedding, with everyone we knew there. Flowers everywhere, a feast, a huge cake, and a big, fluffy white dress. I even did a Danger Room simulation on the whole thing." She rolls her eyes and laughs at her younger, girlish self, then leans forward to playfully bite his nipple through his shirt, and teases, "at least you did the grand, romantic proposal right, all in front of everyone, and you know what? You still gotta chance to get it all right, 'cause _technically_ , we ain't even really married. Not legally, anyw— _hey_!"

"The fuck we _ain't_ ," he playfully growls at her as he hauls her up astride his hips. "We can backtrack a bit, get you that ma _hoo_ sive wedding you was talkin' about if you want, but—" she giggles, smacking his chest at his teasing, and he catches her hand in his for a swift kiss over the ring glittering on her finger, and he starts getting an idea, "you an' me's definitely very married. I know a guy who's gotta talent wit' the pen, so as far as the state of New York's concerned, we a done deal, _wife_ ," he growls out playfully as he leans in for a kiss.

She hums against his mouth, then breaks away and snorts at him. "You're really gettin' a kick outta callin' me that, huh? _Husband_ ," she mocks him dramatically, moving forward on him, arms slipping around his neck.

"You damn right, I'm gettin' a kick out of it, beb," he flirts, pulse jumping at her shift on his lap. Maybe sex isn't off the table tonight like he'd thought.

He sits up and flattens her to his chest, hands pushing her dress to her waist before dragging back over her ass. In this position, his eyes are level with her mouth, and he stares, licks his lips, and goes in for a kiss, gaze chasing up to hers and holding.

She shudders right into that kiss, matching his intensity til he pulls back a bit. "So, chere," he grins at her, his face still in hers, his fingers sliding under her panties (a delicate mint green lace, as it happens, and definitely thin enough fit his earlier fantasy, which he absolutely is about to act out down to the very last detail), "what say you an' me give that new bracelet of yours a spin? Might help that headache out a little, too, yeah?"

She cups his face in her hands and laughs a kiss into the corner of his mouth. "Well, count me in, 'cause I'm all for helpin' a headache," she drawls out with a snap of her teeth into his lower lip and a grind into his hips.

He hisses, closes his eyes and presses her in a little harder, meeting the next roll of her hips with one of his own. "Then lets you an' me get to it." He asks, eyes opening up at hers again and flashing his world red, "lets you an' me do this marriage thing, yeah?"

 


	2. In It For Keeps This Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roguesboobfreckles! This one's for you. A two-parter, because it just got slow all put into one chapter, so another chapter here is all yours, too. Bless you for the perfect gift giving ideas, cuz lord knows, I'd have never gotten it right on my own!

—•oOo•—

"Yeah, shug, I'm workin' a bit late again tonight. I told you this morning, I still got all those end of the year papers to slog through," Rogue laughs into phone, the lie easily flying out of her mouth. So long as she doesn't have to actually look at anyone, deception isn't difficult, and her husband isn't anything special in that regard.

He makes up for it by being remarkably special in every other way, including his remarkably _obnoxious_ talent at guessing gifts. She'd learned long ago that you can't simply wrap a gift at home when he's away and hide it in the closet til the tree is up. He's a grade A master thief clear down to the marrow in his bones, he'll notice the slightest tells that a present is in the building, and ferret it out within an hour.

One can't actually just leave his gifts under the tree til Christmas morning, either. Not unless you want him to sit down with it five minutes after setting it out, and spend some quality time figuring out what it is. And damn the man, he's _good_ at that game.

She'd gotten to an exasperated point one year where she'd wrapped his gift in an odd shaped box with noisy 'stuffing' to throw him off, shit like his half-drank Coke bottle she'd swiped when he wasn't looking, a handful of marbles, and crunched up newspapers. The asshole had answered by charging the tape on the wrapping to open it up without tearing the paper, seeing what was inside inside, and wrapped it back up so that no one knew he'd opened it in the first place. Had Betsy not been irritated enough at him at the time to poke in his head and snitch on him, Rogue never would have cottoned onto it.

All that leaves her with no option but to put his Christmas gift together at the school, well away from their apartment in Manhattan. Well away from him in general, seeing as how he's been thoroughly tied up getting the Guilds straightened out since Belle's warning at the party.

"Ummmhm, yeah, I'm about done, just gimme another thirty, forty-five minutes to wrap it here and get gone," she answers his question as to how much longer she'd be, grinning and nearly snorting out half her brain at her own joke. "I'll pick up grub on the way, I'm kinda feelin' like wings and fried sides tonight. Sound alright to you?"

Of course, she's definitely not only thirty to forty-five minutes from done, probably closer to a couple of hours, and she bites her lip in a dither as she eyes the complete disaster that is her classroom.

She _could_ stay later tonight and finish it up. It'd make life easier in that she could breathe a sigh of relief and be done with it. She's thoroughly enjoyed the process in the making, but time's cutting it close—only two more days til Christmas.

 _Buuut_...

Well. She's a newlywed, for heaven's sake! A newlywed to an utterly mouthwatering man she's been head over heels for near as long as she's known him, and she'd spent so many of those years shoving him off, away, out of her air so she could breathe and panic at the same time. Now, he's all hers, and she wants to go home and enjoy him.

 _And eat dinner, too_ , she thinks as her stomach rumbles, reminding her she hasn't eaten since lunch.

"Alright, I'll see you in a bit." She pauses for a second, fiddling with the ring sparkling around her finger, a shy sort of smile on her mouth. Then, "love you, sugar."

" _Love you, too, beb. Now, don' make me wait on your sweet ass to get home, Anna-Marie. I got plans for that ass, and I been makin' 'em all day, y' hear_?"

He blows a kiss and hangs up, and Rogue is left staring at her phone with a stupidly huge smile, cheeks flushed a little at his flirting.

And to think she'd considered herself well past that, those days of being all young, and all that silly blushing she used to do on account of one Remy LeBeau so much as looking her way!

"Maybe I _did_ get past it," she mutters to herself , looking back at her handiwork. "Maybe it wasn't a good thing, either, and all's it took to right it was a trip down memory lane," she adds, eyes sweeping over boxes and piles of said memories.

A scrapbook. A scrapbook jam-packed with hundreds of mementos of their roller coaster of a relationship, slated for hilariously tacky and cheesy Christmas wrapping because she loves that kitschy kind of shit, and she knows he does, too.

As soon as they'd gotten back together after Paraiso, she'd had the idea to amass it all and sit down with him, hash out in the name of a fresh start all those things she'd thought and felt for him throughout the years. And then…

Well! _Then_ , they'd gotten married on impulse, jettisoned off into space, had their honeymoon crashed and completely hijacked. Then, came back, had a party that her husband's Guild and ex-wife crashed ( _rude_ ) and _oh hey_ , it's five seconds til Christmas!

She'd immediately hopped to it, thinking this was absolutely perfect for his first Christmas with her newly communicative self!

And so, she gone out, found the perfect book, purchased the pretty, expensive paper, markers and pens and stickers, and everything a craftsy person would ever want for such a project, and she'd excitedly started piecing it together, filling up it up with pictures, pressed flowers, movie stubs, beer caps, notes he'd left her. Pictures she'd printed off of screen-shot texts he'd sent her. Lighters she'd found here and there during times he'd left, and one she'd pilfered during their time in California, a bag of sand from there, too. Random cigarettes she'd pulled from his pack when they'd talked on the roof, all of them fiddled with, but none ever smoked. And so much more, just sentimental things she'd squirreled away in a box over the years, spilling out of journals she'd written and crudely sketched in, out of envelopes stuffed too full, jars, coin purses, even his old wallet when it'd finally bit it and fell apart.

Just a bunch of weird, mundane little odds and ends really, odds and ends that'd meant something to her, made her feel things she'd been unable to communicate to him, and here she's sat the last three evenings, reliving each and every moment all this stuff signified to her. Remembering and feeling exactly what she'd thought and felt back then, when she'd just begun to realize that this insanely hot, smooth, bold charmer actually seemed to give a damn about her, while carelessly shrugging off all her baggage everyone else (herself included) wanted to hold her to the fire for.

God, had that really been such short a time ago? Only a handful of years? She's only twenty-seven, she'd met him at barely twenty. And he'd been so young, too, only twenty-two, so impulsive, and just as weighed down with problems as she'd ever been, he'd just been better at hiding it.

She goes a little sad at those thoughts. Had neither of them gotten so torn down by their own dramas, they could've been great this entire time. She doesn't really regret the angst, the reality checks, or the fallouts, but…

She sighs, shakes her head, and reaches for a post-it with a scrawled note he'd written her one time she'd missed dinner after an especially nasty absorption. This one hadn't made it into the book simply because she'd had better ones to put in there, but she still remembers this occasion like it it's still happening. It'd been in the early days, and she hadn't yet discovered any real techniques in coping with a new psyche. Last thing she'd needed was a crowd, and she hadn't banked on being missed, anyway.

"I hadn't banked on that blasted swamp rat at all," she murmurs with a soft smile, gently smoothing the curled edges of the post-it, just as she'd done so many times before. " _Hey, Roguey. Saved you something from dinner. Eat it still hot, it tastes like shit cold. -Remy_ "

She laughs softly at the words. Not the most romantic thing he's ever written, and definitely not the most romantic gesture he's ever made, but lord, if she hadn't treasured that note!

"Heavens, he's gonna laugh himself stupid when he realizes what I loser I was, gettin' all worked up over a plate of food and over-analyzin' a little note like I did," she huffs a laugh and carefully puts the sticky note back and continues sifting through her shoeboxes of goodies to add to the book. "More like, gettin' all worked up and over-analyzin' _everything_ he did."

And she _had_! Little naive, inexperienced, touch and affection starved, twenty-year-old Rogue hadn't known what to make of having a man like Remy pay her any mind. She'd known objectively that she was pretty, but she'd also known pretty only got you so far, and for a long time, she'd thought that was all she could bring to the table. Once she'd figured out Remy was actually interested, was legitimately pursuing her…

Well. It was _a lot_. And she hadn't known anything, despite have absorbed everything there was to know. She'd fallen so hard, so fast, and he'd caught her as best he knew how, and when all the chips had fallen after them…

She'd been devastated. She'd been scared by that, too. And she couldn't—didn't know _how_ to—show it, deal with it. And then the only thing she'd had left of him was all this shit in front of her, and she hadn't known how to deal with it, either.

She'd tried more than once to toss it out like yesterday's trash, during insecure times and flat out heartbroken ones. Thankfully, she'd failed quite spectacularly at it, because as she'd scrambled to get this together, agonizing over ordering everything just so, she'd felt that old warmth, those girlish butterflies, that nervous new excitement all over again. And the thought of giving it to Remy, telling him about it, showing him just exactly what huge a part of her life he's been is both exhilarating and terrifying.

Laying herself wide open isn't a habit of hers, and she has a feeling this will always be something she'll struggle with.

Kind of like him, too, and bless the man, he's _trying_.

"A real pair, ain't we, Mr. LeBeau?" She chuckles to herself, reaching back for that note. What the hell anyway, this one's one of her favorites, he'd made the smallest gesture with one of the hardest-hitting impacts that day, it's going in the book. Even if it _is_ out of order.

"Definitely a bad thing I got past it with you, Cajun. And definitely for the very best I'm right back in it, for keeps this time, huh?"

 


	3. Not At All A Bad Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ludi, this one's for you. This isn't the gritty and dark Remy you prefer, but he's at least embracing his roots a little here;) Hope you enjoy him, and merry Christmas to you, sweets!
> 
> (Also, for anyone who cares, I've got the jewelry on my Pinterest, as well as Tumblr. Look me up, Jehilew, at either site, the board on Pinterest is 'Christmas fic'!)

—•oOo•—

"Jus' a little tweak here, _aaaaaand_ ," the locks neatly slides open, and the back entrance opens easily, "there still ain't a lock this ol' boy can't pick," Remy chortles to himself, swiftly moving on in to disable the security system.

Of course, he'd known that going into this job, just like he'd known it wouldn't present much of a challenge, anyway, just on sheer fact that he's broken bigger, better, and far more sophisticated rigs in his day.

He doesn't get lax, though. A job is still a job, and this one is no slouch, despite its fairly straightforward and simple set up.

Not to mention, he's not looking to get caught. It isn't that he couldn't escape easily if he did; given his mutation if nothing else, there's not a cell that can hold him. It's that it'd be a hellaciously disgusting blow to his reputation, position, and ego.

Given recent bullshit with the Guilds, that's a goddamn nightmare and a half he really can't afford.

He makes quick work of the alarm system, using the code he'd flirted out of the store manager earlier that day while casing the joint as a security technician on a 'maintenance run'. By the time Remy was done on that run, the other man hadn't cared a wit to ask about an unscheduled call, and Remy had successfully done what he'd came to do and gotten a number he'd never call.

Ass over end in love with his Rogue for years, he might be, and a _happily_ faithful husband now, but none of that shit's cooled his game in the slightest, and he's never been above throwing it at men if it made his life easier.

The noisy security dealt with, he takes advantage of his excellent night vision and works in the dark, already well aware of the layout of the building, and most definitely aware of where his target is. He'd made sure of that on a different visit, that time, smartly dressed as a businessman at an appointment.

He wastes no time, avoiding any lit areas and motion sensors as he makes his way through the building til he gets where he's going. He stops behind one of several glass displays, eyeing up the prize set off by the soft interior light.

A stunning 1.4 carats, cushion cut, intense yellow canary diamond ring, set in an 18 carat gold, bezel setting band, nestled in its signature Tiffany blue box. Well on its way into thousands of dollars in value, completely impractical for Anna's particular lifestyle and profession, one hundred percent unnecessary, considering she already has a ring he'd given her in space, and all around, absolutely goddamn perfect, anyway.

He'd rushed them through a stolen wedding, nary a ring or a plan in his head, all consequences be fucked. He damn well owes his wife an engagement ring she'll love, at the very least!

As it happens, the ring is also a perfect match for the set of yellow diamond earrings he'd purchased at that appointment a couple of days ago. He hadn't gone in with intent to buy, but they'd caught his eye nevertheless, and that it'd worked at the authenticity of his visit to buy that day had been a mere bonus.

And besides, he'd known Anna would love them, and what's a few hundred bucks more thrown into a long-since gown pile of Christmas presents he'd already bought on impulse?

He grins, thinking of his wife's reaction come Christmas morning. Each of the gifts he'd sprung for had practically howled Anna-Marie LeBeau as he'd walked by. A cream colored, silk merino and cashmere blend sweater, unbelievably soft against the skin. He'd touched the material and immediately snatched up her size, because he knows she's a touchy-toucher who craves luxuriant textures. A delicious perfume he'd happened by when restocking his cologne, one that reminded him of the South, and the times they'd chased each other down that way. He'd caught a whiff of it, a blend honeysuckle, white peppercorn, and Spanish moss, with hints of jasmine, and his mouth had watered up thinking about that scent sinking into her buttery soft skin. Plus, she loves honeysuckle, always plucks the flowers off the bushes to suck the nectar. He can't go wrong there.

He snorts to himself as he pops the lock on the display glass and easily avoids further security as he pilfers the ring, slipping it into a pocket. He honestly can't recall a time in recent years he'd gotten so worked up, so excited to give someone something. Not since those first few shaky and uncertain years after Jean-Luc had taken him in. And here he is, giddy as a goddamn twelve year old with his first crush over the prospect of watching his wife's face as she opens her gifts, of feeling what she feels in those moments.

If he was a lesser man, he'd feel silly beyond measure over it. Of course, if he was a lesser man, he wouldn't have landed Anna's flighty ass in the first place, so there's that, too. Hell, it'd taken him long enough and caused him enough heartache to manage it as it is.

At any rate, silly or not, he's _done_ on the gift front. No more impulsive buys. Anna's already going to squawk at him for dumping so much money on her (even though he knows it's not a big deal-his wife enjoys the attention, and is loaded in her own right, anyway), and honestly, between the sweater, the perfume, and the jewelry, he's pulled her a pretty damn nice haul.

But really, he did start getting a bit ridiculous. He should rein in just a little, and save something for the next gifting occasion. After all, New Years isn't far off.

Remy quietly slides the casing closed and clicks the lock in place to wrap up the steal. He makes his escape the way he'd come in, pausing only to punch in the code to re-activate the security system before slipping out the door and locking it behind him, the only evidence of his coming and going being the missing ring.

Never say he isn't a considerate thief, keeping all the local riffraff from wiping the place clean behind him. Anna-Marie should be so proud of him…

He laughs quietly at his own joke as he slips out along the sidewalk, walking with all the purpose in world for having just stepped out of Tiffany's onto E 57th at four in the morning. He knows no one out and about even noticed him, and if they did, he won't be remembered. Despite his rather remarkable good looks, he's only one more handsome man in New York City, and with no one seeing his eyes, there's nothing about him to set him apart from anyone else.

With nothing on the inside catching him, and nothing about him to catch anyone else on the outside, he knows he's in the clear, the theft a neat, clean success.

Now, the _real_ trick is getting back home and in bed with his Roguey without waking her. Can't have her suspecting anything and ruining the surprise. Though he supposes if she does wake up, he can capitalize on her warmth and drowsiness with sex, put her back to sleep before the questions start.

Not a bad idea, he thinks, taking up a whistle as he makes his getaway, a fantasy twisting the rush of a steal into something far sweeter, hotter.

Not a bad idea at all.

 


	4. A Hot Something Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, my dear xevg-x! You might recognize some elements of a conversation we'd had before, where you'd wished a Romy scene involving decorating the tree, presents, and hot chocolate and whipped cream snuggles happened. Well, here we are!

—•oOo•—

"Luce! Get your ornery little cat-butt out from under the tree and leave the presents alo— _Oliver_ , no!"

Remy walks back into the living with, two hot drinks from scratch in hands, just in time to watch his charming wife back her gorgeous, cheesy-Christmas-thermal-pajamama'd behind out from under the tree they'd just spent the last hour putting up, dragging his idiot-ass cat out of the lower branches.

Well, one of his idiot-ass cats. Oliver is currently fucking up her artful little arrangement of gifts under the tree, having zipped right on by her and pounced smack in the middle of all four packages. A flick of movement at the corner of his eye spots Figaro up on the mantle, batting at the ugly little squirrel stocking holders Anna had practically squealed over in the Dollar Store the other day.

He smiles thinking back to that afternoon, because leave it to his Anna-Marie to hit up the damn _Dollar_ _Store_ like she needs to pinch pennies around the most expensive holiday of the year or something.

" _Oh hush, shug,_ " she'd snorted up at him, " _'T'was the night before Christmas and all that._ " Then she'd smirked a kiss into cheek and added, " _'sides, that apartment of yours hardly even looks lived in. And it's so...gray._ " She'd shuddered back away from him ever so dramatically for emphasis, then slipped him another kiss, that one on his mouth. " _A bit of fun and color ain't gonna hurt it none._ "

He'd been awful quick to turn that smooch into a full-blown kiss to curl her toes in her boots, and then remind her that it's their apartment, and that if color and fun were what she was after, he'd be more than happy to put all the color in her cheeks, tits, and thighs while having all the fun in their bed if she'd like, so if she could just put those decorations down, because squirrels for Christmas anyway, shouldn't it be _mice_ —?

She'd bitten his lip and laughed in his face, then told him to quit being such a snot because she likes squirrels better, and bought them anyway. Along with the ugly wrapping paper and gaudy tree ornaments she'd already tossed in the buggy.

Truth be told, he doesn't care if she brings all the loud, cheap Christmas decorations into their home. He hasn't ever bothered decorating here for holidays, and the bright colors and kitschy styles popping up amidst all the sophisticated ashes, creams, and masculine gem-tints of the apartment adds a warmth and family comfort to the place.

Also a truth to tell, he'll happily let Anna decorate the place as she sees fit going forward. All the shit in it now is his, and he's not attached to a bit of it. Hell, if she decides she doesn't even like it here, he'll be ready to ditch the digs and tag along while she shops for another place.

Home has never been a _place_ for him, anyway, but rather the _people_ living in it. Anna can do whatever the hell she wants.

Remy sets the drinks down and saves the squirrels from Fig just as Anna playfully hisses Luce and Oli away from the tree. Tossing out a catnip mouse at the cats to distract them away, he turns to catch his wife neatly re-arranging the presents under the tree again, grouching cheerfully about his cats messing things up while she's at it.

"Oh, calm down, beb," he laughs over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen for her can of whipped cream and his bag of marshmallows. "Stop bitchin' at the cats and c'mere," he returns, setting the sweets next to the drinks, taking a moment to drop three fat marshmallows in his. "I got this here hot chocolate buttered rum, issa new recipe. Made it jus' for you, _slaved_ away over it in the kitchen for _hours_ —"

"Well, I _might_ could get to it if your damn cat'd quit knockin' over all twelve million presents you got me," she interrupts, setting the smallest present (those stunning Tiffany earrings he knows she's going to croak over) _just so_ on the pretty presentation of...presents.

"Oh yes, poor li'l old you, all them damn presents," he teases, reaching over to snatch the Santa hat off her head, ignoring her indignant squawk to put it on his own head. "Santa jus' thought you was a _real_ _good_ girl this year, so how about you sit that lovely ass of yours on his lap," he waggles his brows and pats his thigh, "and thank him for his generosity, eh?"

She turns toward him with a roll of her impossible eyes, and lets him pull her up into his lap. "Oh, be quiet, Cajun. You totally went overboard, and you know it."

He heard it that time, the uncertainty under the chiding. She's been busy looking at the boxes of things he's got under the tree for her (plus two more items since he'd decided he was done the other day—he can't be blamed, that was Stormy's fault, taking him to that high-end store full of all the kinds of skin care shit Anna loves) and comparing all that to her one gift she'd only just slipped in there for him a few minutes ago.

Like he gives a fuck about keeping things tit for tat. Besides, it's not as though anyone else has cared enough to get him anything these past several years, anyway. He hasn't exactly cultivated many of those sorts of relationships, and where he did, he hadn't encouraged that particular friendship dynamic.

"Mmm-hm, maybe I did," he agrees with a good grip on her ass to pull her astride. "Maybe I did that jus' so you'd have to make it up to me." He finishes out that flirt with a growly bite in her neck.

"Would you quit it, shug?" She giggles and bunches her shoulders to squeeze his face out her throat as she reaches for her mug. "Ya gonna make me spill my drink all over the place."

"Oh _non_! Guess that's mean takin' off all these clothes. You should start wit' that shirt, then you be topless like me, an— _hey_!" He smacks his wife's pilfering fingers out of his marshmallows in his mug, "tha's _mine_ , an' I haddit melted to perfection—"

"Rude boy," she sasses him, trying again, "won't even share with your wife. I'm reportin' you for spousal abuse—"

"Spousal abuse, my ass," he counters, easily thwarting her again, "that shit ain't gonna hold once I tell 'em how you left me t' die in Antarctica wit'out a coat or a way home—"

"Why _you_ …!" She gasps at him in faux outrage and damn near knocks the table over to successfully steal a marshmallow out of his drink anyway.

"Mmm, is _good_ ," she crows out triumphantly around a mouthful of his perfectly half melted, chocolate butter rummed marshmallow, "what'd you say this is— _mmmmanum_ —!"

He kisses the stolen candy out of her mouth and pulls back, vision flashing red as he lights up and flirts at her. "Mmm-hm sure is good, chere. You get into my marshmallows again, and I'll eat your—"

"Idle threats, Cajun," she shushes him with sticky marshmallowy fingers smushed over his mouth. "Over here, actin' like I can't just take off this bracelet and flatten you in a half second." She reaches over him for the can of whiskey whipped cream he'd made just for her and squirts some in her mouth. "Or that I can't take some ol' swamp rat down while wearin' it any day of the week."

"Pah!" He leans forward and licks the whipped cream out of the corner of her mouth before she can. "You ain't never took this old boy down wit'out them powers unless I let you," he teases, knowing full well how wrong he is.

"You _lie_!" She squawks at him, and squirts whipped cream in his face in retaliation. He laughs, snatching her in tight, feeling a bit like his heart just punched his nuts, and feeling a lot like he wants to do something about it.

"Do I, Anna-Marie?" He purrs into the side of her neck, smearing whipped cream along her throat, "don' know about all that, seems t' me like this whole situation calls for a little demonstration. A match," he adds with a sharp nip and a long lick to get all that cream, rolling his hips up between those delicious thighs in his hands.

She fists a hand in his hair, sending shivers scrabbling up his spine as her nails scrape over his scalp, and he lets her tip his face up at hers.

_Goddamn_ , she's stunning. From looks to quirks to baggage to personality traits, endearing and not alike, she's absolutely stunning. In every sense of the word.

"Well," she draws out the word with a thick smirk and sultry eyes, "now you're just talkin' dirty, 'cause you know how much I love me a good tussle."

She sets her drink down next to his, and winds her hand tighter in his hair and gives it sharp pull, making him hiss in anticipation. He's always preferred sex a little on the rougher side, a little pain with his pleasure, and his Roguey's a closet freak who likes to give it to him. Tonight's shaping up to be one he walks out of with a limp in the morning, and he's ready.

"Now, sugar," she begins in a sweet, thick drawl, picking up the whipped cream again, "that chocolate buttered rum is absolutely _divine_ ," she squirts a bit of cream in the dip under his lip and into the cleft in his chin and licks it all off. "But I'm thinkin'," more cream, zipped down over his Adam's apple, and again, licked off, "that maybe," this time, clear down the midline of his chest, followed by her shifting down to her knees, "we can drink those a bit later, 'cause," a cool flourish into his navel, a hot sweep of her tongue that makes his abdomen clench, her gorgeous eyes flicking up to hold his, "I'm thinkin' I'd rather go for a hot somethin' _else_ right now."

And with that, she undoes with her teeth the ties of the Christmas pajama pants she'd gotten him, pulls the front down, and, with the whipped cream ready, proceeds to help herself and make him completely forget about the fact that re-heated hot buttered rum isn't worth the time it takes to even consider the idea.

Hell, he's all for 'a hot something else' with her instead, too!

 


	5. Where You Go, I Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roguesboobfreckles! This one is also yours, because goddamn you came up with some great gifts! ;)

—•oOo•—

Rogue wakes up with a groan, head-achey from the power suppressor on her wrist, and deliciously sore all over from her husband's rather... _enthusiastic_...attentions last night. She doesn't know what time it is, but it's been long enough since she'd last had Remy that she feels well napped, and he's been up long enough for his side of the bed to have gone cold.

She rolls into his pillow, and deeply breathes in his scent, then snorts at herself for being such a sap. It's not as though she hasn't gotten a whiff of the man on the regular over the past several years as his teammate and his on again, off again lover. No need to get all girly and dramatic over the smell of his spicy cologne and cigarettes in his sheets.

She closes her eyes and pulls in another deep breath anyway, and that's when the faint smell of bacon hits her.

Her eyes pop open and she scrambles out of the twisted sheets, snatching up last night's pajamas off the floor. Her man's cooking breakfast, and she's never the idiot to miss out on one of his meals.

Besides, it's Christmas morning. Not their first Christmas together (or _together_ ), but their very first one together in the proverbial sunset, and she has a hell of a gift for him. She honestly can't hardly wait to watch him open it.

Quickest way to that front row seat is up and at 'em for breakfast, and given that he's as skilled in the kitchen as he is in the sack, she doesn't figure on this being any sort of chore.

—•oOo•—

Rogue pads across the living room, eyes honed in on the tall, lithe man at home in his kitchen, cheerfully whistling as he twirls and tosses a spatula in between flipping pancakes.

She smiles at his play, taking advantage of his obvious distraction to stop at the island and enjoy the show.

The very _naked_ show. Remy's completely starkers but for his green 'Kiss me, I'm Irish' apron.

Gorgeous man. She's always thought so, but he's especially something to watch in action, movements so fluid and graceful, his enjoyment evident in every line of his body.

And then, there's the fact that he's more content and more relaxed than she's ever seen of him.

Marriage suits him. Marriage to _her_ suits him.

She smiles at that. He's happy. And a happy Remy is a disgustingly beautiful Remy.

She drinks in the fine view a few moments longer, then pushes off the countertop to move into the kitchen and slip her arms around her husband's waist.

"Shug, you _do_ realize it's Christmas, and not St. Patty's Day, right?" She laughs softly into his skin, pressing into his back on her tip toes and smacking a loud kiss on the nape of his neck. "And you ain't even Irish, anyway."

He immediately turns and catches her mouth in a kiss, all while still managing to expertly flip a pancake on the griddle. "Mmm, well, they didn' have one for Cajuns, so I settled." He looks back to breakfast on the stove, pushes around the scrambled eggs and checks the bacon, then turns back to give her all his attention again. "'Sides, I might be a bit Irish, no? Can't say nothin' for sure one way or the other, so what say instead you jus' kiss this old boy anyway, yeah?"

"I'd say you missed the point entirely _Cajun_ , seein' as how I pointed out you dressed for the wrong holiday," she laughs, sliding hands up his chest to loop arms around his neck and pull his head down for a kiss anyway.

His chuckle is a throaty rumble up into her mouth til she lets him up for air. "Seein' as how I got the girl to kissin' me, I'd say I'm right en pointe, hmm?"

"Hmmm, yeah, you got the girl, didn't you, sugar?" She smiles up at him, playing with the ends of hair as she leans up to kiss him again.

She loves this man so much, it's embarrassing, and he can damn well have all the kisses, touches, sex, words, whatever, _anything_ he wants out of her. Lord knows, he's done his time in a hell of her own making to get it.

—•oOo•—

"So, I see you were busy this morning while I was sleepin', huh?"

Rogue shoots her husband a teasing look upon noting the new additions under the tree. Seven presents in all, six of them from him, and two of those hadn't been there the night before.

He might have gone just a tad overboard, which knots up her brow, considering her maybe not so tastefully done lonely only under there with his pretty pile he'd kept adding to since the tree went up.

"More like I been busy since you woke me up for some _happy holiday cheer_ at seven this mornin', chere," he shoots back with a waggle of his brows and a filthy grin. "Now," he adds, holding out a present, "quit all that scoldin', and c'mere. I gotcha something."

"Uh-huh, I see that," she drawls at her entirely unapologetic Cajun, settling next to him and accepting the first gift. "Sugar, this is so pretty as is, I kinda almost don't wanna open it," she remarks, gently tearing off the bow for re-use later on, and she's only three quarters joking. Like the others he'd gotten her, this present was clearly professionally wrapped, and clearly from a store she'd never shop, despite her own wealth. She has no doubt in her mind that the gift itself is beautiful as well, and likely outrageously expensive and absolutely perfect for her. Remy's good at that sort of thing.

He snorts at her. "Chere, you'll like what's in it better than the paper, so quit babyin' it, and tear it open already, eh?"

She shoots him a look and pretends to open it slowly just to be contrary, when in all actuality, she's carefully unwrapping for safe-keeping.

This is, after all, their first Christmas as a married couple, and she's practically a rodent when it comes to hoarding shit she's in her feelings over, so...

—•oOo•—

"Well, _damn_ , Remy, you went all out this Christmas, huh? These are perfect, shug."

Rogue smiles over at him, a bit of nervousness _maybe_ creeping into her tone and definitely kicking up her heart rate as she finishes smearing on generous glob of shea butter hand cream that Remy had gotten her. Its scent of magnolias and oak moss is already clashing with the delicate fragrance of the perfume she'd opened earlier and spritzed on, and she probably looks absolutely ridiculous, wearing the softest, richest cream-colored sweater ever made over her Christmas thermal pajamas, but she doesn't care.

He'd taken the time and plunked down the fortune, she will damn well put everything on as she opens them, and wear them all til she takes them off to soak in the sea salt bath he'd lumped in with the hand cream present.

She's kind of starting to feel like a dipshit with it all, honestly.

She'd been so sure about the scrapbook, so certain it'd be perfect. But now, following up the sheer elegance and quality of his gifts, she's going to hand over her larger, clunkier tackier looking present, and it's basically full of trash.

_Lovely_. Because that's exactly what a rich man who has everything needs, is trash.

"Mebbe I did, chere. Ain't my fault, though. I originally was only gonna get you a couple of things, mais," he pauses, shrugs carelessly, "all this other shit jus' jumped right into my hands, and well," he flashes her a charmer's smile as he hands over his last gift under the tree, the smallest one, "this happened."

She rolls her eyes and takes the gift, also taking the opportunity to lean over and smack a kiss on his cheek. "You're absolutely ridiculous sometimes, swamp rat. But these are all fantastic and I love 'em, thank you."

"Ridiculousness is part of my charm. And don't go thankin' me yet. You ain't done openin' presents."

She sticks her tongue out at him and tears into the gift, and then sucks in her breath. There's no mistaking a Tiffany box, which means the man either threw down some good cash, or he's responsible for the the breaking of Tiffany's flagship store that broke the news earlier in the week.

She slowly lets out that breath and throws her husband a wry look. "I don't suppose this had anything to do with that ring that got stolen from Tiffany's a couple of days ago, huh?"

"Chere, you can rest easy tonight knowin' I did not steal that from Tiffany's," he replies smoothly, without so much as a batted eyelash.

She squints at him. She knows he's a thief, she knows he's life-long criminal straight off the streets of New Orleans since before he was even out of diapers, and she loves him and accepts his occupation on a professional level, but if he'd stolen this for her just because he can—

Well, she supposes it doesn't matter too much, she knew what and who she was hitching up to when she did it. She's not comfortable with it, but…

She guesses all she really hopes is that he hadn't lied about it just now.

"Go on, open it up, beb, and quit accusin' me wit' them pretty green eyes," he chuckles, " _woundin_ ' me wit' that look, after _all_ I jus' did for y—"

"Oh, you _stop_ it, you rat," she snorts at him, smiling as she opens the box. "You're so dang dramatic, I swear— _oh my god_ ," she breaths, staring at box's contents, "Remy, these are absolutely gorgeous."

A pair of halo yellow diamond studs, and easily more expensive than all her other gifts combined. Utterly stunning, definitely something she'll wear near everyday, and most definitely not that stolen ring she'd all but accused him of lifting.

She looks up at him, feeling the widest, stupidest smile splitting her face. And it's kind of silly, really. She's never been all that into jewelry, and this isn't even the first piece he's given her, nor is it the most significant—the sparkler on her finger marks both those scores. But this is the first time he's gone out and purchased a shiny something for her, and it's doing all kinds of funny things to her insides right now!

She supposes perhaps no girl is actually immune to sparkly presents, after all.

She crawls over into his lap, grabs his face, and kisses him soundly on the mouth. "Best Christmas I ever had, sugar," she declares, idiotic smile still in place.

"Mmm-hm, a regular husband of the year, ain't I?" He readily agrees, arms circling around her as she plants another kiss on his cheek.

"Something like that," she laughs at him, settling her back into his chest, already taking an earring from the box to put it in her ear.

"More like, I _am_ that," he rejoins, dropping a quick kiss on her shoulder as he plucks the stud from her fingers to do the honors, "'specially since I only been doin' this husband thing for a month. Hell, y' Christmas ain't even over yet."

"Oh my god, Remy, are you serious?" She twists around to fling a look at her husband, because dammit, he really did go all out, and she's essentially giving him a trashcan in book form. "Shug, you seriously bought out the state of New York—"

"Pipe down, you," he interrupts, "and be still. I'm almost done."

Rogue frowns at him to hide her heart sweating buckets, but cooperates. _God above, that scrapbook was a stupid idea for a Christmas gift, she should have just dumped it on him at whatever time, and gone out to buy him actual gifts, nice things—_

"There. Look at you, all sparkly and yellow, wrapped in a soft cloud, and stinkin' of the South—"

"Your fault if I smell," she cuts in, "you're the one who went _in_ on gifts this Christmas—"

"Well, I can take it all back, if y' that unhappy wit'—"

"Well, and I can always divorce you—"

"Well, you do that, and I can't give you…" he pauses, producing another gift, unwrapped, and another unmistakably Tiffany blue box, "this."

Rogue feels her eyes going wide as a cartoon's, and she knows she's about to start catching flies, the way her jaw just hit the floor. Because _that_ is a Tiffany's ring box. A Tiffany's _engagement_ ring box. And little matter that she's already wearing his wedding ring, this is one he picked out specifically for her—

Her train of thought abruptly halts when he opens the box, and her brows knot up a bit at what she sees inside. "Remy," she begins slowly, _really_ not wanting to crap on him or the moment, but unable to just let it go, "this is _so_ incredibly beautiful, and I _love_ it, but…" She bites her lip and looks up at him, "a yellow diamond ring goes missing from Tiffany's, and you were just now tryin' to say you didn't steal it?"

She knows it's stupid to get so stung, they're both still new, they're still figuring out how to open up, and she's never given him reason to be transparent with her (more like she's repeatedly given him reason not to be), and—

It stings, anyway, that he'd _lied_ to her, with a straight face, too, and no hesitation—

"Non, chere, that ain't at all what I'd said." His eyes flick up at hers as he takes her hand, his expression serious. "I said I didn't steal them earrings, and I didn't."

She keeps his gaze, still hurt, though slightly less upset now. "But...you stole this, didn't you?"

He looks at her, calm, not a shred of remorse or defense on his face. Then he kisses her fingers. "Mais, chere, all's I'll ever say is, a Tiffany's started missin' one of these about the same time you got one, and," he shrugs unapologetically, "I'm a thief."

She feels her frown softening, and he picks up on it and nips at her knuckles, his eyes still hot on hers. "Figured I owed you a right proper engagement ring, even if all of it's a bit outta order."

_He hadn't lied_.

He hadn't lied, and he'd also known she'd realize the theft, seeing as how a bit of a stink had been raised in the media. Which means it wasn't something he'd ever intended to hide from her; he could have made that happen if he'd wanted to.

Her hurt feelings start fading even faster as she watches him slip the ring on her finger, listens as he continues, "anyway, jus' an idea I got to thinkin' about since that talk after the party the other day."

She looks up at him then, expression melting still warmer as realization dawns. She'd said she'd accept him as king of Thieves that night, after the party, but that's not the same as accepting him as an active thief. He's calling her out on that, too.

She's still not cool with him lifting things for her just for fun or practice, but…

This is him. She can either fight it, and sew resentment, or she can accept it, and maybe compromise with some boundaries.

Plus, that ring is _gorgeous_. And one hundred percent something she'd pick out for herself. And he'd clearly put a lot of time and thought in getting it for her; buying the darn thing would've been loads easier and faster.

Put it to herself that way, and it sounds pretty damn romantic, her husband finessing something as impractical, yet sentimental, as a fancy engagement ring just for her, just because she kind of wanted one.

She snorts at her ridiculous romanticism, then starts smiling at him. "Sugar, it really _is_ beautiful, and it's absolutely _perfect_." She leans up for a fast, soft kiss, then, "here on out, though, just buy me whatever, alright? No more stealin' for me, okay?" She immediately follows up with another kiss, a longer one, adding a smiled "thank you, Remy, I _love_ it. Love _you_ ," against his mouth.

He cups her jaw and deepens the kiss, and by the time he decides to let her breathe again, she's curled her fingers in his hair and her toes into the rug. "Mais yeah. No more stealin' for you. Scout's honor."

"Pfft! You, a Boy Scout," she laughs at him, catching his hand out of the Scouts' sign and pressing it to her other cheek. After a moment, she turns a kiss into his palm, and pulls away, reaching under the tree. "Now, I got you a little something, too, shug."

Heart thumping ninety-to-nothing, she turns to face him, sitting on her knees and holding his gift to her chest. "Now, I just said it was little, so," she shrugs helplessly and then hands it over, "don't expect nothin' like I just got from you."

His eyes flash and he waves off her warning. "Don' worry about that, chere. It ain't a contest, no? And besides," he throws her a charming grin meant to melt worries (and her panties, if she'd bothered to put any on before coming down), "you always did give me the best presents, I don't figure this time be any different."

"Liar," she counters easily, because it's true. She sucks horribly at picking out gifts, and he knows it.

She fidgets as he tears off the tacky Christmas lights and snowmen paper, and then freezes while watching his expressions as he opens the book.

The first few pages aren't as busy as they are further into the book, and the first page in particular only holds flight stubs from Muir Island and a few fierce, scribbled out entries from the journal she'd kept at the time. She hadn't been quite sound or sane of mind back then, still reeling from unchecked psyches and the Shadow King's control, and had chosen to fly home commercial rather than risk using her flight power and poking the psyches or deal with her teammates on the Blackbird (and all their _goddamn_ questions and suspicions). She'd written as much in a series of short, somewhat nutty entries, describing the experience, how it'd messed her up, and meeting him.

Well, that _kiss_ , and how that had impacted her—

"Awww, _chere_ ," he looks up with a teasing grin, "your first real kiss! And you wrote it right, it was a helluva smacker you laid on me. Cutest part of this is, is readin' just _how bad_ you felt like drop kickin'' my ass clear to the other side of the island for makin' you want another one—"

"Ugh, _shut up_ ," she groans, cheeks firing up, "it was a _trying_ time in my life, okay? Of course, it made me mad—"

"More like, made you wanna ride my ass into the rocks that night, literally," he cuts in gleefully, "and it made you feel—"

"Oh, I did _not_! Remy, I was _scared_ and being _mind controlled_ and—"

"And didn't none of that have a thing to do wit' that kiss, or any of the ones after it, so quit it," he laughs.

Rogue stares at her impossible husband and flattens her lips, about to go denying it til her dying day, and then stops.

He's right. And that's what this whole dang scrapbook idea was about, is opening up wide and letting him see just how much he'd meant to her, from day one.

She blows out a sigh. "Of course it didn't, shug. I was just too chickenshit to admit it. Among other things. Anyways," she gives him a girlish smile and moves back into his lap, taking the book in hers. "This next page was _allllll_ about that day in the Danger Room, after you'd shown up outta nowhere, and I'd just learned you were my _damned_ teammate…"

—•oOo•—

"...and _this_ one, shug, this one here— _oh my god_ , look at this!—this is where you get to see what a _loser_ I was!" Rogue laugh-snorts embarrassingly loud, snuggling back a little closer into her man's chest and laughing at her own stupid noises. "This is the note you left me that first time you brought up a dinner plate."

She _might_ be a tad buzzed. Remy had long since declared this sort of romantic moment a champagne sort of occasion, and he likes the _gooood_ stuff.

"Well now, I don' know about you bein' a loser, beb. I think it's kinda cute, how obsessed you were wit' me? I mean, I can't blame you—"

"Shut up," Rogue giggles, clapping a hand over her husband's mouth, "I wasn't obsessed with you, genius, I was _in love_ with you." Then she pauses, burps, "okay, maybe I was obsessed. Un peu." She giggles at her awful take on his accent, and adds, with the appropriate forefinger and thumb gesture, " _très peu_."

"Oh, that right? Jus' a little?" He chuckles, clearly ignoring her not-so-great Cajun French, and looks at her favorite sticky note from him. "Chere, you kept a note I left you on a plate of leftovers from years ago, and you was only _un peu_ obsessive?"

"Yeah, well, it was a rough time, ya know? I was all kinds of crazy back then." She pulls a face and does the crazy whirl at her head. "And then there was you, comin' around all the time, flirty and friendly, and actin' all interested, and I couldn't even begin to figure out why." She flashes him a loose smile and adds, "you'da liked to have driven me as nuts as the folks in my head back then, sugar." She stills, fidgets her fingers along the cuffs of her new sweater, then shrugs. "That day, that occasion...it was the first time I started figurin' out you weren't just being an ass to me, like I was a game or something. I started figurin' out you actually liked me to some degree or another."

" _Hoooo_ , you was _real_ quick on the uptake back then, huh?" He laughs a series of kisses along her neck that makes her shiver and curl even further back into his chest. "So what's the rest of this page all about?"

"Pfft. Don't play dumb," she counters, "the rest of the page is obviously shit from that wedding you stole—shug, we really need to discuss some boundaries on that theivin' notion of yours—"

"Hold up, Miss Law Abiding Citizen, how many lighters you lift offa me all these years—"

"Not the same, I was _totally_ tryin' to save your stupid ass from lung cancer—"

"—pretty sure I counted at least twenty in this book, ain't no tellin' how many others you stole. And I know there's at least four packs worth of pilfered smokes in this thing—"

"— _anyway_ , yes, wedding stuff." She turns and loudly kisses the side of his face. "There's some of the rose petals from the aisle. Flowers from my bouquet. Wrappers from those amazing Dutch cocoa truffles—"

"Those were good truffles," he cuts in, "bet I could re-create 'em—"

"—you do that, shug. Now, that," she giggles, "is a scrap from the neckline of my wedding dress you ripped while tryin' to get at my boobs in the bathroom at our reception—"

"Hope you don' expect an apology, chere. 'Sides, it wasn't even a big tear—you fixed it by stuffing the drapey part under your armpit."

"Irrelevant, Cajun," she declares, then burps again. She'd forgotten that part about drinking bubbly—anything fizzy gives her burps to rattle the windows. "And this is the upgraded wedding invitation." She flourishes a gesture to the invitation she'd gotten, Kitty's and Piotr's names crossed out and replaced with 'Rogue' and 'Gambit' in respective neon green and pink Sharpies. "It got a few modifications."

"I see that, chere," he chuckles a very pleasant rumble into her back, and she finds herself very distracted by his hands, one curled under her breast, the other running along the inside of her thigh. "I see you even changed the parents' names, too, and in the right colors."

"Yes, I did. Not that I see Raven as my mama, mind you, this was all for fun. Hence the doodles, stickers, and glitterbombin' that took place here."

She forces herself to hush and settle, watching him trace fingertips first over the hearts markered around their chicken-scratched names, then the cartoony little Cupids in clouds shooting arrow after arrow into the 'o' in Rogue, and the 'a' in Gambit. She'd felt especially artistic is adding glitter bursts to the shot vowels, like shot hearts splattering and messy everywhere.

Despite the obvious humor at hand, given the nature of their relationship over the years, the 'art' isn't a lie.

He remains quiet, and she starts to fidget, nerves and vulnerability finally pushing ahead of the booze and any softer feelings at the moment. "So, I, uh...I mean, this ain't much compared to what you've given me, but this...this is all stuff—and god, there's _more_ —" she cuts off with a slightly mortified laugh at that admission, "anyway, this stuff is just what I'd kept over the years. Cuz startin' from the very beginning, you meant something big to me. I, uh, haven't been great about letting you know that over the years. So," she shrugs, "here we are."

"Nah, chere, this right here's pure gold," he shoots back, a sweep of his fingers over the glittersplosions flashing them with a charge he immediately pulls back in. "All's I got you was a shirt and some rocks, anybody wit' a bit of cash can do that." He turns in to sharply nip at her ear as he continues, " _this_ , though, this ain't nothing but that heart of yours I been chasin' for what, six, seven years now, smashed all in it? Figurin' I just came out ahead in this round."

She rolls her eyes, because he would say something like that. Reaching back, she pulls his face down to kiss him square on the mouth. She lets him take it over for a moment, lets it deepen to a slow, luxuriant sweep of his tongue against hers, and then she pulls back.

"Smooth talker," she teases him, then turns back to the scrapbook. She flips the page, opening up to the last spread. One side is plastered with as many recent momentos as she could cram in, pictures of him, them, the cats, flirty notes she'd left him on the fridge before leaving (she supposes she'll always have a thing for sticky notes), and printed off texts he'd sent her (a couple of them definitely on the sexting side of things, several of them his particular brand of sweet, and a couple of immature, but funny ones). She'd included several of the few shots she'd managed on their space honeymoon, and the one shot she'd snuck from his phone.

"I remember takin' this," he murmurs, pointing to the image of her, wearing nothing but the bedsheet and standing in front of a spectacular outer-space view from the ship. "You was actin' like you were upset about the honeymoon situation, and I knew you weren't, just...maybe it wasn't what you expected, eh? Anyway, you were so beautiful, and it finally hit me that we was married."

Her heart turns over on itself at the memory, and she spins in his arms to face him. "No, Remy, that wasn't it at all, I wasn't upset or—or—or lookin' for anything in particular. The honeymoon started out far more beautiful than I'd ever imagined. But everything was so…" she shrugs helplessly, not quite sure what word she's looking for.

His mouth quirks up a wry smile, and his eyes are soft and practically flashing up a light show, and his tone is so gentle, " _rushed_? Cheated, maybe?" And she wants to eat him up.

"Yeah, rushed is a good word." She shrugs. "Cheated isn't a bad one, though maybe a tad strong," she carefully admits, because as true as it might've felt like, she doesn't regret any of it, and she doesn't want him to think she does for even the splittiest of splitted split seconds.

A thought starts ballooning in her mind. He'd harkened back to their conversation after the party earlier, and she's doing the same right now, her mind honing in on the teasing part about doing the wedding stuff 'right'. She has absolutely no interest in another wedding, or a do-over of any kind on anything else, but if he felt like he owed her an impossibly stunning engagement ring, then she damn well owes him a fantastic honeymoon full of nothing but sex and necessities and no interruptions.

After all, it'd been her to answer Kitty's call, partly out of her own sense of duty, and partly because everything had been so fast, so intense, and she'd been a little skittish.

Well, she's done being skittish. And she wants the intensity he brings.

Grinning wide and stupid, she playfully traces their initials over his chest, complete with an arrow-shot heart. "How about this, Cajun. How about I take us on a second honeymoon, huh?" She finishes her imaginary doodle with flirty zip of her fingertip along his collarbone and flicks flirty lashes and a flirtier smile up at him. "No interruptions, no eggs, no aliens, no _Kitty_. Just perfect weather, gorgeous views, and us."

"Mmm, Seychelles, maybe? Think it was you talkin' about pretty beaches up in space. Unless you gotta place in particular y' thinkin' of?"

" _Places_ ," she corrects him decisively, "'Cause I want a little of everything. I want beaches, I want mountains, I want waterfalls, I want snow, I want nothin' but a bed, I want fun shit to explore and look at, and I want at least a month— _two_ —of nothin' but you and me, shug." She cups his face and moves up for a fast, hard kiss. "But yes, Seychelles first, if you'd like."

He immediately pulls her in and turns that kiss into something decidedly more, and it isn't until he starts pulling her up and her legs around his waist that she realizes they're about to be distracted away from the best page in the whole scrapbook.

Rogue breaks away with a huffy laugh and shifts back off of him, reaching for the book. He grunts in protest, and tries to drag her back.

"C'mon, beb, we can look at it in a minute, you got me all wound up wit' all that sweet talk—"

"Remy, no, we— _listen_ , Cajun," she laughs and half-heartedly struggles against his less-than-half-hearted hold on her, " _listen_ , you're gonna get it in a minute, but I want you to _look_." He lets her go, and she grabs the book and turns it around so he can read the words. "This is important. I want— _need_ —you to see it."

She watches him look at it, watches his expression as he takes in image, listens to his soft snort at the ridiculousness of it, and then feels him go still at the words written.

His eyes fly back up to hers, irises flared so bright, she can't make out the usual color variances, the subtle scribbles of magenta and orange, the tiny flecks of blue and violet that make up the gorgeous red color as a whole. "Chere, this...I said this. That day I thought you ran off but good."

She smiles and nods, and his eyes drop back to the page. Her eyes follow, smiling wider as her very tactile husband runs his fingers over the only picture on the page, a very undignified image of him laid out on the sofa with cat loaves all over him, his eyes closed, his mouth open, fast asleep. She'd snapped the photo after having just come home from work, and it'd hit her on a visceral level that this was home, here, the cats, him… _him_.

Which had immediately made her think of what he'd said that day, maybe only three years ago or so, when he'd set his boundaries, broken off from her, and she'd so stupidly skittered off to Erik like a stung, scared street dog with her pride and her dumb, stubborn, insecure tail between her legs.

"I remembered what you'd said, Remy. Word for word," she answers quietly, eyes following his script she'd scribbled furiously into one of her many journals, entries she'd carefully torn out (torn, because jagged edges had suited the moment) and arranged across the page, along with answers she'd scribbled right back at him in the margins, directly on the page itself.

_"When it comes to love, reasons for and reasons against should fall away. You should just know."_

_"I know. I **know**."_

He looks back up at her. "It'd liked to've killed me to say all that." He looks back down at the page. "I knew I'd lose y' then, I was jus' hoping I wouldn't lose y' forever."

"And I was hopin' the same, shug," she tells him, glancing back down, too. She feels his hands curling around hers, and she glances over, watching his thumb rub over the back of her hand. _Beautiful hands_ , she thinks, and she's always thought so. "I knew I was in love you years ago, Remy, but I was too scared of it til that day in Paraiso." Her mind is already headed through the next words, and she smiles, her heart in her mouth, "when I finally stopped _running_ to finally start _talking_."

_"I'm your home. Your harbor. Your end point, not a station along the way. Not a gamble or an experiment."_

_"You absolutely_ are _my home. Where you go, I go. And I couldn't be happier for it."_

"That last part, that's what you said when I asked you to marry me, right before you said 'yes'," he murmurs, fingertip ghosting over the words, and her heart throbs for him.

"Yup, it sure was, Cajun. And _lord_ , if only you could've seen inside my head at the time!" She laughs softly at herself, and continues, "there were so many dang psyches with something to say all at once, I could barely even hear myself think, let alone talk, and then there was you, your heart all over your face, kinda like a grounding...I dunno, focal point in it all, and then I was cryin' and couldn't see that either!" She shakes her head. "You turned me into a _mess_ that day, I hope you know."

"I know I definitely turned you into a mess that night," he leers at her, and then he snorts at the last words on the page.

_"You'll come to me when you know that."_

_"And that's what I promise you, Remy. No matter what, I'll **always** find my way back to you."_

"Heh, can't believe you remembered that jackass speech of mine, chere, but that's a nice touch, answerin' back wit' your own vows, yeah? I especially love how you got all this emphasis on 'always'. Might make a boy think y' maybe want him stickin' around a little while."

"Wow, _real_ quick on the uptake, huh?" She laughs his earlier teasing back at him. "Also, you _were_ a jackass, I'm _so_ glad you can finally admit that," she teases more with a dramatic eye-roll, setting the book aside to scoot up on him and loops her arms around his neck. "But I'm pretty sure I had you beat in that arena that night, so we were a pair." She makes a face and burps again. "Thank _god_ I brought your stubborn, runnin' ass to your senses in Paraiso, 'cause—"

" _My_ stubborn, running ass?" He laughs and bites her lip, his hands already in her pants, "who was it wit' her asshole all puckered up in plane _allllll_ the way out to fuckin' _paradise_ island—"

"I dunno, babe, you were all kinds of puckered up on that flight, too, if I do recall," she giggles and shoves her impossible husband to his back, pushing up his blasted wrong apron and dropping to kiss in a ticklish spot right inside his hipbone. "And I most certainly recall you gettin' all kinds of puckered up and bothered during that trip— _hey_!"

He flips her on her back fast as you please and cuts her off mid-squawk with a kiss to brand her dang soul, and really, the only thing she can do when he's like this is open up, fist one hand in his hair, grab at his back with the other, and just go to total mush under him.

He pulls away, eyes hot, the smirk on his mouth even hotter, and her breath catches and her body clenches in anticipation at the promise etched into every beautiful angle of his face.

She's about to get nailed to the floor, and she _wants_.

"I did get maybe a little bothered on that trip," Remy flirts down at her, easily slipping her pants off and tossing them off behind him somewhere.

She leans up for more kisses, an arm circling his neck, her other hand sliding down his spine to tear open his apron. She lets him up for air long enough to pull the neck strap over his head and laugh out, "only a _little_? I remember a slightly different situation, you nasty rat— _ishhhhhht_!" She sucks her teeth so hard, her breath whistles as her Cajun cuts her off with a grip on her thigh, a roll of his hips, and a deep push in.

"I show you 'nasty'," he promises over her mouth, and he follows up with a move to make her gasp out his name as her eyes cross and squeeze shut before fluttering back open at him.

"And Rogue," he adds, dropping his forehead to hers as she wraps around him, pulling him down on her, in her, arches up into him, because she can't get get him close enough— "thank you for the gift. It's beautiful, _perfect_ , one to top 'em all. And you're right, chere, you finally came _to_ me," he shifts up _just so_ , hits _that spot_ just right, and she squirms under him, it feels so good, and she can't quite pull in a proper breath, she loves him so much— "now, you gonna start comin' _for_ me."

She feels his hand squeeze her thigh, promising fingertip bruises later, watches his eyes flare, his skin wash a faint purple as he calls a charge, and she starts panting his name as she feels him buzzing, all over her, inside her, moving hard, deep— "oh god," she breathes, closing her eyes as the buzzing intensifies, sweet, sharp pleasure— "oh god, oh god, ohgod _oh_ —"

" _Now_ , Anna-Marie, come for me _right now_ ," he growls at her, and the sound of his voice does it, the delicious command in it. She closes arms, legs, and body around him, jerks his face down into her neck, and howls his name, a whole bunch of other things, too.

"Tha's it, chere, god _damn_ , I love you, sweetheart, so fuckin' beautiful when I got you, when you come," he croons at her, snapping his teeth over her ear to make her shiver and twitch around him some more, make her writhe under him again, and bless the man, he doesn't let up on her even a little bit. "Now do it again, Anna-Marie. I want it again, and again after that."

And she does. Rogue grabs at Remy, her husband, her lover, her partner, her closest friend, her king of Thieves, holds him down tight in her body, and loves him right back, for many more times to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That turned out waaaaaaay sappier than I'd intended! I actually tried to rein that shit in, but it fought me hard enough, so gdi, it stays. Besides, the deserve alllllll the sap. All of it:) Also, that last line is basically xevg-x. I was having the damndest time closing this chapter out, and she just randomly suggested "...and many more times to come", with absolutely no context, and I just couldn't not use it, so here we are:)


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